


A Question

by outbackrat



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-02 11:48:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10943880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/outbackrat/pseuds/outbackrat
Summary: "Whose blood is that?"





	A Question

_“Whose blood is that?”_

……

Mercy’s words echoed, for all the good they did, his companion’s concern went unnoticed. Virtually falling on death ears. Despondent, the junker halted in the threshold that joined the kitchen and the lounge. Having another period of memory loss, thanks to what had overwhelmed him minutes earlier in the en suite of their shared bedroom.

The random memory loss had overlooked the lengths he went to in securing the master bedroom and the adjoining bathroom – that the privacy there did not extend to the rest of the house. It hadn’t affected his thorough, carefulness with that.

It had made him forget, instead, that Dr Ziegler was still at home. Misery always came in threes: walking into the same room that the doctor was occupying was strike three.

Silence fell, as Junkrat pondered over how best to answer her. Delivery did not matter. Drawing up an intricate chart or playing back memories and reasons to justify what he did would certainly have no bearing on this sensitive matter. The stunned expression Mercy was wearing sent a jolt through him; another painful reminder that despite what he had been believing, there were people alive today that still considered him as anything more than a trophy, his value calculated down on paper for bounty hunters.

Twisting his bottom lip between his teeth, Junkrat’s lapse in answering her ended sooner than even he had expected himself.

Teary eyed, he slowly raised his good arm, which didn’t look so good and pure anymore.

The ends of some fresh lacerations were visible under the gauze tightly bound around his wrist. The junkrat had done a poor job at slitting; too late into the job and he had realised that the right way to do it was cut straight from the wrist up along the inner forearm, not horizontal across the wrist. The congealed blood had seeped through the gauze - there was a little more freshly drying splatters along his hand, shoulder, and his side where he had brushed up against it.

Soft-spoken, Junkrat’s voice still carried easily across the room to Mercy.

_“The blood’s mine. Sorry to dissapoint you, Mercy.”_


End file.
